And when someone beats you to a terrible idea — an idea that you and you alone would be foolish enough to attempt — the spectrum of emotion widens and gapes, a chasm between “I could’ve!” and “they shouldn’t've!” spiraling ever downward into the depths of sour grape mash cut through with rivulets of shining admiration.

In short, I can’t quite decide how I feel about Culture.

I have for years almost secretly dreamt of starting up a consumer magazine devoted to cheese. I love cheese. I like to write. I prefer to edit. And I’m sure that no one familiar with my employment history and educational background would be vaguely surprised to hear that “after all that,” I had thrown it all away to start up a possibly doomed-to-fail overpriced glossy about milk mold in all its glory. It all seemed so right. It should have been me. But it wasn’t.

And now, for a price, I can watch a cadre of bosom after-my-own-heart snobs live out my fantasy in print. I bought the premier issue the week it debuted and poured over its pages, geeking out while seething with envy. It’s a slice of humble quiche well worth the near $15 cost of admission.

There is a market for nearly anything the human mind can think to dream. Unfortunately for me, it’s often a free market built on the basis of supply and demand, the latter being something in which my ideas often lack. But there’s room out there. Where there’s a glossy, there’s room for a zine. Where there’s a “here’s how they do,” there’s room for a “DIY.” I didn’t create Culture, but I can create (ahem ahem) counterCulture.

Not to say that I’m rushing out to Kinko’s, honestly, but the inclination is there. In a small way, I think this mix of approval and disdain is the impetus for many — if not most — of the independent projects I know and love. Backlash against ideas we didn’t have the money to execute on a full scale. It makes me question the authenticity of my own iconoclasm. Maybe it’s jealousy. Maybe it’s fear of success — or rejection.

In any case, I was gonna maybe be rich.